


Caught

by October_rust



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Clothed Sex, Kissing, M/M, PWP, Rutting, Undercover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-28
Updated: 2017-09-28
Packaged: 2019-01-06 13:40:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12212376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/October_rust/pseuds/October_rust
Summary: Bruce and Jason have to pretend to have sex for the sake of the mission. Of course, it goes too far.





	Caught

There's a silent beep in their earpieces; one of the sensors they've planted on the stairs and in the corridor has just been tripped.

Bruce and Jason look at each other.

Their work here is already done; thanks to Tim's help and his tech, they've managed to hack into the computer and copy all the incriminating data.

A simple job, really – attend a fancy party, slip into the study when everyone else is busy dancing and drinking, grab the evidence, and leave.

But someone apparently did notice that Bruce Wayne and his mysterious assistant disappeared from the ballroom downstairs quite a while ago.

And now this person is heading straight to the study, it seems.

Well, time for the second part of their show. 

Jason gives Bruce a crooked smile.

“C'mere, Brucie,” he says and pushes away from the old wooden desk he's been leaning against. He stalks over to Bruce, standing tall and imposing in his black evening suit, and doesn't stop until he's right in Bruce's space. 

The windows in the study are big, letting in a stream of moonlight, so Jason can see clearly the wary glint in Bruce's eyes, the tightening of his mouth.

“Oh, please,” he scoffs. “Like you haven't played this game before.”

Jason reaches out, grabs at Bruce's tie. “You're a pro at this, Brucie.” He tugs, the silk crumpling in his fist, and Bruce's lips hover over his. “Don't get shy on me, now.”

And then he lets go of the tie, and shoves against Bruce's chest. Bruce stumbles back, eyes widening, as his shoulders hit the wall.

Jason follows him and crowds him right there, driving his body flush against Bruce's. The heat immediately seeps in through the thin fabric of his shirt, and Jason knows that Bruce feels it too, that intimate press of their bodies. He smirks at Bruce, noting how tense he is, the way his muscles are straining under all that expensive and exquisitely tailored clothes. 

“Lovely.” He pats Bruce's cheek, gets an outraged glare for his trouble. “Aw, don't get mad, Brucie-boy.”

It's almost surreal to be doing this, touching Bruce like that. Jason can't help but think that it's something like a sacrilege, like pushing the statue of a hero from its pedestal, when he starts undoing the knot of Bruce's tie. 

Bruce lets him, watching him all the while, face impassive. 

Jason takes it as a permission to go on, and tugs the collar of the shirt aside. He hesitates, stares at the strong column of Bruce's throat, the pulse beating wildly just under the skin, then bends his head down. 

His lips graze the side of Bruce's neck.

“C'mon,” he whispers. “We have to make it look real. Give me something, Bruce.”

When this still doesn't provoke any reaction, he bites down hard, not caring about leaving bruises.

“Street trash, yeah, I know. Not good enough for you.” His voice is tinged with anger now, the old, bitter resentment resurfacing. “But can't you just pretend for a few minutes? This is a job, we --”

He doesn't get to finish, because suddenly Bruce's fingers are in his hair, making a wreck of the carefully styled strands, clenching and tugging, until Jason has no choice but to arch his neck in surrender. 

“Don't,” Bruce says, quiet, but the words rumble with a barely leashed fury. “Never call yourself trash, Jason. You're ...”

He cuts himself off, something dark and unreadable in his eyes, and then he's moving, looming over Jason, bringing all that power and strength up from beneath the polished Brucie Wayne mask, and Jason can't look away, can't smother the surge of fear and excitement. 

One sharp, jostling tug brings their faces closer still, and it's all the warning before Bruce's mouth is crushing his, hot and hungry. 

It's like a punch, like being devoured, like being caged – and yet Jason melts into it, a high, shocked noise tearing itself from his throat when Bruce cups his ass and squeezes hard, the touch both dirty and possessive. 

Bruce doesn't let him draw back; only digs his fingers in, as though trying to leave the mark on Jason's body, and takes advantage of Jason's parted lips. He deepens the kiss, turns it into something even more primal, even more all-consuming. Jason sways against him, swept into the tide of heat, darkness, the pounding rush of blood.

It robs him of any coherent thought, narrowing everything down to a pulsing, desperate need. All the feelings he's been trying to ignore for a very long time, all the guilty fantasies are coming to the surface, and he's vaguely aware that he won't be able to hide them away from Bruce anymore. It's all there, right in the greedy press of Jason's lips against Bruce's, in the way his hands are roaming over Bruce's shoulders. 

He flushes, his cheeks burning, as a thick, muscled thigh wedges itself between his legs, and rubs there, against his cock. It's just the right amount of pressure, delicious and teasing, and Jason moans into Bruce's mouth, thrusting his hips up, the tension starting to coil at the base of his spine. 

He stirs and hardens so quickly against Bruce's thigh that it leaves him lightheaded, his breaths coming out in short, harsh gasps. It's too much, it's Bruce, and he can't resist that, floating helpless in the tangled web of his own conflicted emotions and desire. 

The smell of Bruce's cologne is all around Jason, that tall, strong body he's been dreaming about for so long is bent over his, pressed against his own from chest to groin, burning him. His cock starts to leak, ruining his slacks, but Jason doesn't care, rutting against Bruce's thigh, giving in to his overpowering need for Bruce, shame and anger forgotten.

It crests over him, the pleasure scorching him from the inside, and then his muscles are tensing up, his skin buzzing with electricity, and he's coming, his shout muffled by Bruce's mouth.

He slumps against Bruce, so weak that he barely registers the sound of the door opening.

“There you are!” It's a female voice, warm and seductive. “Oh!” She trails off, her voice breaking into a peal of nervous laughter. “I see you're busy. Sorry!”

The door closes with a soft click, and they are alone again.

The silence that follows is deafening.

It's so eerie that it starts to penetrate the pleasant afterglow enveloping Jason. A crushing sense of guilt descends, along with his self-loathing.

What the hell was he thinking?

Why did he allow it to go too far, to cross that line?

Should have known better, fuck it. Should have kept it professional.

Now it's over.

Better to put it behind them and pretend it never happened.

So he shoves away from Bruce, and busies himself with straightening up his clothes. His hands are shaking on the buttons of his shirt, the buckle of his belt.

But Bruce catches his wrist, his other hand reaching up to grip Jason's chin. 

Gently, he turns Jason's face back to him, tilts it up, so Jason has no choice but to meet his gaze.

Jason blinks.

The way Bruce is looking at him – soft, thoughtful, as if Bruce is seeing something rare and precious, even though Jason knows he's a mess, his hair all sweaty and tangled up, skin feverishly hot, eyes still heavy and dark from sex.

The way Bruce is looking at him.

He swallows, closes his eyes.

Don't look at me like that.

Don't.

But Bruce just lets go of Jason's chin, brushes his fingertips over Jason's brow, his cheek, his lips.

Then, Bruce's arms come around Jason, shielding him, giving him warmth, and Jason falls into the embrace, his weakness winning over yet again.

Just a few more minutes of that.

Just a few.

And then they can pretend it never happened.


End file.
